


City of Light

by riverbed



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Banter, Christmas, Fluff, M/M, Oral Sex, Role Switch, Romance, Teasing, handjobs, this is why G-d will turn me away at the gates of heaven, top-bottoming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-12
Updated: 2015-09-12
Packaged: 2018-04-20 10:32:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4784159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riverbed/pseuds/riverbed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Distractions in Paris.</p>
            </blockquote>





	City of Light

Rain was beating sideways against the window, the bright lights of Paris illuminating the drops running down the glass in streaks of neon red and blue. The desk lamp on the hotel suite's sideboard cast golden light upon the front room, bathing the evening in warmth, an illusion, a mask over the downpour on the other side of the etched double doors leading out onto the balcony, itself wrapped in string lights, more inadequate illumination. It reminded Solo of New York, of Christmastime at home, of comfort and pie with a scoop of vanilla ice-cream and of padding around in wool socks and scarves. But it wasn't home.

The snow – nay, sleet – outside made a good case for itself, but in spite of Solo's appreciation for all things decadent and softly curved and dainty, he was not fooled by the whiteness of a French Christmas. He swore he had eaten all the petite delicacies he could stomach, and when he walked the streets in the early mornings – as he had taken to doing to clear his head – he was finding it increasingly harder to ignore the parts of this city that got on his nerves: the cafe regulars swigging brandy at eight in the morning, the women sauntering unconvincingly on stilettos the same height as their heavily teased hair, the bodegas peddling tabloids with celebrity antics splashed sensationally across the cover.

No, this Christmas would be spent in a foreign land, with companionship that ultimately left much to be desired. At least he had Illya. Deep in a mission and with no resolution foreseen for at least another week, he and Kuryakin had retreated to his own room, as they did each evening, leaving Gaby with her yé-yé music and bottles of sherry next door. The two men were sat on the rug in front of the ugly, yellow sofa, a game of chess splayed between them, glasses with vodka and whisky, on the rocks, next to each of their right hands. Illya had his back to the door, so that lights from cars brave or stupid enough to be out in the storm puttering down the sidestreet outside their window crossed him occasionally. Solo noticed the lowlights of Illya's cheekbones, the stubble dancing up his cheeks, and, at the very moment before the cars would turn and the light would dim, the bright flash of blue from his eyes.

He sighed, loudly, not in response to anything but his own musing, but it stirred Illya, who moved only his eyes from the chessboard to glare at him, his hands clasped under his chin, his elbows rested on his knees. “Do you have problem, Cowboy?”

“I think I'm just... restless.” Solo chose his words carefully. The Russian smirked with only one side of his mouth. How did he do that?

“Are we not playing game?”

Napoleon rolled his eyes. “We're playing a 'game' only by its most rigid definition, Peril. If it were up to me, I'd amend the rules. I'd say: 'If you're going to play a game, everybody involved ought to have fun.'”

Kuryakin chuckled. “You are not having fun because you are hopeless. I could teach you how to play chess so you could stand a chance, Cowboy, all you need is ask of me.”

Solo didn't dignify that with an answer, opting instead to finish his glass of whisky in one go. He felt the Russian's eyes on him as he gulped it down, slamming it harder than he meant to on the coffee table beside him. Illya sighed.

“What do you do instead of this, American?” He paused, regarding Napoleon now with a full head movement. “For _fun_ ,” he added spitefully.

Solo turned his gaze back on him, purposefully half-lidded, willing the ice-blue eyes for permission, for matching interest. Illya's eyes narrowed, all right, but accusatory, defensively. “Not tonight, American stallion. I am... too tired.”

“All the more reason,” Solo prodded. “After a particularly long and shitty day, what's better than my mouth on you?” He challenged Illya with this, saw the shudder that shook his shoulders, and knew his hook had sunk. He let it pierce a little further, let his previous words hang in the air, taking the time to rise and shed his waistcoat and loosen his cufflinks, leaving him in his shirtsleeves and trousers, his dress socks feeling increasingly restraining.

“Come on, Peril. You're right, it's clear I'm a hopeless case when it comes to chess.” He sacrificed a little bit of his ego because he knew the Russian liked it when he did. “You might have to give up on me, even. Let's move on. Teach me something new.” He moved past the taller man and knelt behind him, lacing his fingers and popping his knuckles before placing his hands on the Soviet's shoulders, working into the tight muscles under his modest wool sweater. He couldn't see his companion's face, but he liked to imagine it softening moment by moment, and he took Illya's continued lack of vocal response as acceptance – it wasn't as if he couldn't easily shove him off if he wanted to.

In reality, Illya was fighting to keep his eyes open as he felt the stress and frigid cold from the day leave the muscles under his shoulder blades. Napoleon's hands were far too talented in all their pursuits – his kleptomania, his massage technique; completely fearless and beautiful hands, and Illya resigned himself and reached around with his right hand to catch Napoleon's left on his corresponding shoulder. Surprised, and instinctive, Solo yanked his hand back, but upon realizing he was not about to be thrown across the room, placed it back across Illya's shoulder, brushing his knuckles against the taller man's chin from behind.

The Russian nuzzled into his touch, and grasped his hand again, guiding it down over his throat. Solo adjusted his position, kneeling up to scoot closer to his coworker's back, breathing deliberately on the nape of his neck. Illya felt the hair there stand as breath ghosted over him, and a shiver ran down his spine from that point of contact.

Up on his knees with Kuryakin sitting cross-legged on the floor, Solo had a height advantage, and reached down Illya's front with his other hand, finally closing the rest of the distance between them. He ran his hands over his chest, resting his head atop Illya's and observing his own touch from above. He watched as Illya's chest rose and fell, his breath falling in time with the American's own, as he explored more and more of his torso.

Illya leaned back and rested his head fully against the other man, now, his eyes closed, feeling Solo respond to the adjustment by leaning further forward and reaching lower, lower down, and his fingers curled under the hem of his sweater, and he shivered – they were cold on the skin of his belly.

“You're actually relaxed for once,” Solo observed from next to him, tugging hesitantly at the fabric with one hand and flattening his other palm fully against Illya's skin, dragging it up and down the now-bare expanse.

It wasn't a question, but Illya responded anyway. “I am plotting your demise, Cowboy. You have fallen for obvious honeypot trap.” He smiled, and he kept his eyes closed but he could feel Solo smile, too, warmth radiating from him as he turned his face to place a chaste but inviting kiss to Illya's cheek.

He opened his eyes and turned to meet the American's gaze, taking in his wildly dilated pupils, his flushed face. “What a honeypot it is,” Solo whispered, almost in awe, and Illya kissed him, then, all tongue and heat. He was suddenly _very_ aware of how on-edge he was – the massage, the teasing touch on his stomach and chest, the smell of Napoleon's shampoo, cut with the bite of his aftershave, all had their intended effect on his libido, and his cock stirred insistently in his all-too-confining 501s.

He felt vulnerable, practically underneath Solo, enveloped in his hands and hair and mouth, and he was learning to embrace that role with each time they played this game. He had admitted to himself last time, when Solo had ordered him to his knees and yanked on his hair, that he liked the feeling of letting someone else take control, of stepping outside himself and letting someone else keep him in line. What had been hardest to swallow – what had been the most difficult to accept, among all the things new to him in this arrangement – was the inherent trust he placed in Solo, how many ways he could have ripped his heart from his chest, literally, during their escapade. This had sent him reeling after, struggling to process the concept of him, a man who had been betrayed so much, accepting the attention and dominance and – it made him want to spit – _help_ of someone every prewired signal in him screamed at him to believe was untrustworthy. But he was not, Illya knew this because of the tender way the man's fingertips danced across his throat when he finally got the Soviet's shirt off, from the way he tasted when he kissed him, from the very nature of his touch, aggressive, yet genuine, yet caring, yet kind.

Solo broke the kiss again and Kuryakin pined, tilting his head back far into the crook of Napoleon's shoulder, exposing his throat. He knew Solo would take this as an invitation, nipping unceremoniously, nibbling the sensitive skin into bruises that would mean a turtleneck would be the only option in the morning. Illya found himself sighing and sinking further down in Solo's lap, the man's legs spread around him, happy to be cradling him as he sank further and further into his companion's possession. And he could feel the unmistakable line of hardness on his lower back, through the fabric of Solo's herringbone trousers – his cock responding to his own ministrations on Illya's body, maybe to Illya's body itself. He didn't entertain this possibility, didn't let his imagination get carried away, at least not until -

“You are so beautiful,” Solo said breathily, against his neck, and God _damn_ him, he made his heart flutter so quickly, he made his lungs empty and his breath impossible to catch, he made his skin hot and ever-more-sensitive to his practiced touch. He made him feel like a schoolgirl, giggly and gangly and awkward, and needy, oh-so-needy, especially when his palm ghosted over the bulge in his jeans, the rough fabric pressing into him as he shifted his hips to gain what was _not_ enough friction against it.

“You're like a present that I get to unwrap,” Solo said, grounding him. He had his arm wrapped around Illya's neck, sort of in a loose chokehold, and Illya found himself gripping his forearm, practically lying down, his body slack and keening. Solo watched him wriggle and whine, finally taking pity on him, biting into his earlobe as he undid the Russian's fly with his free hand. Immediately Illya stopped moving as his cock was freed from his jeans, gasping as cool air surrounded his groin.

Uncomfortably erect himself, Solo cursed under his breath as Illya's insistent cock sprang from the zip of his Levis, a visible drop of pre-ejaculate already gleaming at the head. “Jesus.” He spit in his hand, reached down to wrap his palm around the base of the younger man's cock, pulling it up the shaft and sliding back down in rhythm.

“Napoleon...” Illya warned, gaping at his own helplessness, watching himself be toyed with by the American. He was so close to coming already, and he didn't want to lose this, wanted to watch his own cock jump and thicken with each pump of Solo's fist, wanted to kiss him more, wanted to touch every square centimeter of his skin, wanted to take in the smell of his sweat and cologne, wanted to be thrown down over the nearest object and filled and fucked and used, and that thought was so heady it overtook him and he tipped over the edge, his hips jutting up shallowly with what little leverage he had to match his lover's touch, clawing at his arm and he felt like he was underwater, struggling to stay surfaced and holding onto Solo for dear life.

His ears were ringing but he could hear Napoleon breathing above him, and he stared up blankly through him, knowing he was there but struggling to bring him into focus. He cleared his throat, feigned confidence. “Very good, Cowboy,” he said, and Napoleon's deep laughter filled the room. “Your Soviet sensibilities are so charming,” he teased, and brought his hand to Illya's lips, pressing in, letting him taste himself on the pads of his fingers as he pressed them against the back of his tongue, feeling his gag reflex resist. But Illya's cheeks hollowed and he sucked and moaned around his knuckles, reminding Solo of the heat threatening to boil over in his groin. He felt lightheaded and suddenly like he had consumed much more whisky than he had.

“You're filthy, Peril. Look at you,” he breathed, in awe of his partner's body, tense and wound and tight, his eyes lingering on the little drops of semen pooling in the dips his hipbones made in his tanned skin.

Illya felt as if he would never have the energy to get off again, but his body apparently disagreed, insisting that attention be paid to his dick once again as Napoleon's fingers continued to invade his mouth. The fact that Napoleon, conquistador extraordinaire, was so sensual and giving – and that he, himself, even appreciated such things, the brute he was – had been a shock. His head was swimming, and his cock was hardening again fast. “I want to fuck you, Cowboy,” he moaned around Solo's fingers, and the sound of his own voice shocked him. He had said it before he even thought it – his brain was lagging behind, completely at the mercy of what his body wanted, and his body wanted to be _inside Napoleon_ , wrapped completely in tight heat, bearing down over him, using his superior strength to -

It was too much to think about. His head was white noise, pure static, but Napoleon helped him, turning him so they were facing each other and he watched, his vision spinning, as Solo loosed his belt and then his fly, his cock springing free of its confines fully hard, heavy and dark with blood. He saw Napoleon palm it a couple times and growled at him, gripping his wrist hard. “Don't,” he warned, and he saw Napoleon shiver under his gaze, intense and pitch-black.

Solo understood instantly. He was not to touch himself, not to come under his own hand. Kuryakin had had enough of being the vulnerable one and now he wanted to make him vulnerable, wanted to manipulate him until he was begging for it, reduce him to a puddle of whimpers. He groaned and his head dropped back, his hand uselessly still and flat on his hip. Illya's eyes traveled over him, his pants dropped to where he was still kneeling on the floor, the cut of his hipbones visible where his skin was pulled taut over them in this position. His shirt was still on. This was unacceptable. Illya popped the buttons at the top first, staring Napoleon down as he yanked the shirt apart piece by piece. He would deal with reparations on the surely-expensive shirt later – now, he could think of nothing more important than baring Napoleon's chest, tanned and dusted evenly with black hair. As he pushed his shirt back onto the floor behind him, Napoleon's arm caught his attention, and he leaned down to bite the skin over his bicep, just left of where Solo had caught a knife a couple of months ago. Napoleon yelped and then moaned.

“Where do you want me?” he asked, his voice nothing more than a breath. Illya growled again, standing and yanking Napoleon up with him. He tossed him on his stomach on the bed in the next room. Napoleon glared at him over his shoulder. His legs were splayed out wide across the bedspread, and his hips were rocking absently against it, his lips swollen and parted. “Come _on_ , Peril. How long are you gonna make me wait?”

“You are bossy,” Illya chided, “and in no... _position_... to demand anything.” He crawled onto the bed behind Napoleon, placing a hand firmly against the small of his back, a reminder. Napoleon shuddered and stilled his hips. He opened the cap on the bottle of oil he had retrieved from the nightstand, its little _pop_ echoing through the hotel room. “Ask nicely instead.”

Napoleon looked him dead in the eye and grunted out, “Kuryakin. Please.”

Instead of responding, Illya growled lowly and pulled Solo's hips back against his own, lining himself up to sink into him slowly. Under his fingertips, he tracked the older man's cycling through the fight against his body's inclination to tense against him, patiently inching forward only in the moments he could feel Napoleon relax enough to be sure it wouldn't hurt him, and with each adjustment, Napoleon would whine and arch to encourage his continuation. It pained him in the best way to watch Solo like this, undone and struggling and pining and his body in utter need.

“Oh!” Napoleon started and their shared body heat surged as he tightened, and Illya shuddered, knowing he had brushed that most sensitive place inside him. “More, Peril, more,” Solo demanded, and Illya saw no reason to argue, only to chide him playfully even as he tilted his hips to rock backward and then forward again, building up a steady pace. “Greedy,” he teased, breathlessly.

Napoleon sighed contentedly in acknowledgment, and Illya could see a smile play at his left cheek, exposed to him via the slight tilt of his partner's shoulders.

Illya was driving into Solo ever harder when he turned to look at him fully, his bright eyes stopping him, somehow, telepathically. “I want to try something,” he told him, and Illya realised his lips were swollen and red from being bitten as he was fucked. “Help me up.” Illya stared at him for a moment, not understanding, but Solo arched his back and reached back with one arm, and Illya pulled him back toward him, still sheathed in the American's body.

There was so little space between them like this, both of them up on their knees with Solo in front of him, Illya pressed up against him hips to chest, his face over his shoulder. He could smell the sweat in his hair, and their body heat conducted back and forth endlessly. Illya felt like he was running a fever. Napoleon reached back to grip the back of Illya's head, which tilted his hips outward with the effort, making Illya gasp at the unexpected friction around his cock. His hands settled naturally on Solo's sides, tracing the muscles underneath his ribs.

Their hips rocked as if in duet, perfectly harmonious. Illya bit down on Solo's neck and heard him exhale, and his head dropped against Illya's shoulder, exposing his throat to him entirely. His hand left Illya's hair, settling on top of the Russian's own at his side. Illya adjusted, too, reaching forward with his other arm to wrap his slick hand around Napoleon's thick cock, relishing the stutter of his hips and thrusting particularly hard when Solo's pattern was interrupted and his breathing quickened.

Solo cried out loudly, training his heavy-lidded eyes upon Kuryakin above him, his head still cradled in the dip of his shoulder and neck. They stared each other down as Illya fucked him, using one hand to guide his hips back and forth and the other to pump Napoleon's member, high on the feeling of controlling his body, of having his pleasure literally underhand. It made him dizzy, Napoleon helpless and babbling like this, and he felt and saw and heard Napoleon's release, every nerve in the American's body short-circuiting as his orgasm hit him and Illya growled as he tightened impossibly around him, easily sending him spiraling over the edge of his own plateau. He had been enjoying watching Solo so much he had suspended himself from the moment, easily forgetting his own pleasure balling tightly in his belly, and now it unfurled, made all the more intense by his distraction.

Even when he pulled out he was almost entirely against his partner's body, and he tugged at Solo's hair and pulled him to follow as he finally rested against the headboard. He directed Napoleon's head into his lap, rested him against his thigh. “Clean me up,” he said quietly, nodding toward his softening cock, slick with come and oil. Solo flicked his tongue against him like a practiced whore and Illya shuddered violently at the sensitivity, his fingers carding more tightly in Solo's hair.

Solo spit on his dick and licked him down one more time, his eyes trained on Illya's own as he moved on, dipping his tongue in the hollows of his hipbones and making his way up his stomach and chest with his mouth, straying every once in a while to nibble on the skin over his biceps. Finally he kissed him, all tongue and exploration, soft and lush, his mouth like warmed velvet, the tastes of whisky, Illya's skin, and his own body mingling and Illya felt drunk on it, felt filthy, felt like he could easily sink under the surface like this, like maybe next time he would happily let himself drown.

Napoleon Solo was going to be the death of him, he realised. One way or another. There were a lot of possibilities, after all.

 


End file.
